Original subtitles

[ orchestral music plays ]

[ announcer speaks ]

[ arrows whizzing ]

Skip: I don't know. I can't believe it.

He's usually on time.

He's never late, really.

I don't understand what could possibly be--

Rick: W-w-where is he?

He's hardly ever late.

Don't sweat it. We've got plenty of time.

40 seconds to air.

That's plenty of time?

Sorry. The freeway was jammed.

Which one are we doing today?

Rick: "The Elves and the Shoemaker."

What? We can't do the shoemaker thing.

Skip: You've got a problem with that?

My feet. Pan down to my feet.

Has anyone taken the time to realize

that no one wears shoes around here?

Rick: We're just taking a little creative license.

Chill out.

But what about my love interest?

Where are the gorgeous babes?

Skip: Not this time.

30 seconds to air.

But I want gobs of gals.

I have a contract, you know.

There must be some sort of clause.

Oof!

It's got to be in here someplace.

On air in five,

four, three, two...

- [ glass shatters ] - Howdy.

Today we're doing a great "ALF Tale"

called "The Elves and the Shoemaker."

It's got thrills. It's got action.

It's got adventure. And most importantly,

it's got a bevy of voluptuous honeys for yours truly.

Punch it.

The story begins many years ago

in the tiny borough of Birkenstock

on Melmac's lower east side.

On East 2nd Street stood a small shoe store.

The store's owners

were the once master shoemaker Donald Tramp

and his lovely wife Imelda.

This is where I draw the line.

Get my agent on the phone.

Ouch!

[ stammering ]

I mean, dinner's almost ready,

my darling yet penniless husband.

I'll be there after I finish

cutting this shoe leather, sweetums.

Sweetums?

I've never been so embarrassed in all my life.

Gordon: Yes, they were poorer than dirt,

but they were madly in love with each other.

Little did the shoemaker and his wife know,

but their luck was about to change.

So here's the deal. If you want to continue as professional elves

this is the last step before you're out the door.

[ stammering ] Oh, boy.

Does this mean we get to work for Santa?

No, this means you get one more chance

to prove yourselves or you're living on the street.

B-bummer.

There's a modest neighborhood shoe store

that's about to go under.

Go fix the problem so the humble shoe maker

and his lovely wife can be happy.

Here is the address, Norman Rae.

Report back to me when the job's done.

Clowns.

Gordon: That night, the two elves broke in--

uh, gained access to the shoemaker's store.

[ grunts ]

Once inside--

and might I add that it's about time--

once inside, the two elves

busied themselves immediately

making a splendid pair of shoes.

Oh, Imelda,

my little morning dove,

can you come in here for a second?

[ clamoring ]

Give me a minute, will ya?

Do you know anything

about these beautiful shoes,

my little creampuff?

Creampuff?

That's it. I'm out of here.

Hey, chill out.

We're doing a show here.

Get into it.

I mean,

I know nothing about these beautiful shoes.

Oof!

[ tires squealing ]

I'm an incredibly rich woman

who is looking for a gift

for my incredibly rich husband.

How much for the shoes?

[ stammering ]

$42.50.

Being incredibly wealthy,

I wanted to spend a far greater sum

on my incredibly rich husband.

I'll give you 500 bucks for them.

[ gasps ]

With enough of those shoes, I could rule the world.

We'll own the planet!

So you've got to send some more elves

to help us. We're burnt out.

A-and this Tramp guy is g-getting g-greedy.

Look at the bright side.

More entry-level positions for recent elf graduates.

I'll make a few phone calls.

Gordon: Norman Rae and Ike came back the next night

to make more beautiful shoes.

Soon, thanks to hordes of professional elves,

Tramp's little shop sold the finest shoes in the world.

With his new riches,

Donald Tramp began buying real estate

and airline shuttles.

Soon he was the richest man in the land.

And still he wanted more.

Tramp: Attention, workers:

This is to inform you that your eight-hour workday

is now 14 hours.

Keep those shoes coming.

Time is a-wasting, people.

Let's be productive.

A wealthy boss is a happy boss.

I can't take this anymore.

M-me n-neither.

[ powers down ]

Tramp: Attention, workers: To save money,

there will no longer be a working air conditioner.

Think cool thoughts and buckle down.

That does it. I'm walking out.

I can't take it anymore.

- W-what? - I'm on strike. Are you with me?

Sure, Norman Rae. I'm with you.

All right, go get him, Norman Rae.

That's the greatest thing I ever heard.

Strike! Strike! Strike!

Hey, where do you think you're going?

You can't just walk out.

If you don't come back immediately,

you're all fired!

Gordon: And so the workers went out on strike.

This is where I come in.

[ engine revs ]

[ tires squealing ]

Good morning, Mr. Shumway.

That's me.

Trillionaire Donald Tramp

started as a small businessman

a few short years ago.

Now he is the head of Tramp Enterprises

along with his lovely wife Imelda.

Gordon: Lovely? Gack!

- She's a bowzoid. - [ blows raspberry ]

Donald Tramp's workers have just gone on strike

stating that he is a tyrant to work for, among other things.

Your mission, should you decide to accept it,

is to settle the strike in an impartial way.

As always, if you are caught

and beaten with a sack of sheep-dip, tough luck.

This tape will self-destruct in eight seconds.

Be kind. Please rewind.

[ static ]

[ lamp shatters ]

I told those guys eight seconds wasn't long enough.

[ groans ]

[ grunts ]

[ muttering ]

[ engine revving ]

- [ tires squeal ] - Whoa!

What are you doing with that thing?

Careful.

Who's in charge here?

I am. My name is Norman Rae.

I guess I was the one who got these guys to walk out.

Norman! Norman!

The name's Shumway. Gordon Shumway.

What seems to be the problem here?

Our boss is a tyrant.

- Yeah! - That guy's a tyrant!

He treats us like slaves.

Makes us work long hours with no air conditioning.

Only gives us 10 minutes for lunch.

Tramp is icky! Tramp is bad!

Norman Rae is rad, rad, rad!

Catchy little tune. I'll give it a nine.

It's got a good beat and I can dance to it.

Go back to picketing. Go back to picketing.

Tell the world of our problem.

I'll talk to this man. I trust him.

It's my face. Mom says it's a trusting face.

Tramp is stinky!

Tramp's a dope!

We'll wear him down, we hope, hope, hope!

They should have quit while they were ahead.

So what's your first step?

I'm gonna go in and talk to Tramp.

But first I'll need to see a list of your demands.

Hit it, dude.

O-our demands are as follows--

A 10% incentive for working third s-shift.

Why don't you just demand first shift?

We only work at night.

Y-yeah. W-we're professional elves.

Then why are you picketing in the daylight?

W-we're m-moonlighting.

That doesn't bode well for your primetime future.

We also want a c-comprehensive dental plan,

North Pole vacations, shoe curling irons,

and a television so we can watch our two favorite g-game shows.

Which are?

"Wheel of Cheese."

And "Bowling for Lard."

I hope you're not gonna hold me to that one.

- We are. - We are.

Figures. Is that all of your demands?

- Yup. - I won't make any promises,

but I'll give it a shot.

[ protestors muttering ]

Excuse me, sir, but these boxes

are too heavy to carry all at once.

Please, can't I take smaller stacks?

Stop whining, Mom,

or I'll send you back to the trucking department.

Norman Rae, he's our guy!

Spit in Donald Tramp's left eye!

Hustle, Dad. Don't be a loser all your life.

I'd like to talk to you about those workers outside.

These are my new workers.

But they're scabs.

Workers: Excuse us for living.

I'm from the Impartial Mediators Foundation, Mr. Tramp.

I'd like to know your response to the charges

made by your striking workers.

Whoa!

Oof!

So, how'd things go in there?

[ revving motor ]

[ tires squeal ]

If you can't keep up with the conveyor, Grandma,

at least help load the trucks.

What is it,

my little passionflower?

That does it. I'm suing the writers.

Stick to the script.

I-I mean,

there seems to be a problem, sweetie.

Your uncle screwed up the dye mix

and the shoes are coming out, shall we say, unique.

Huh? Oh, just handle it.

Yes, my darling husband. You heel.

The gig is up, Donald Tramp.

Now you've got to listen to me.

The strikers' demands are a comprehensive dental plan,

North Pole vacations...

I-I w-wonder where Mr. Shumway is.

I think it was the demand for the TV.

Oof!

Look, just cut out the sweetums garbage and follow me.

We've got a real problem, you clodhopper.

Aah!

Way to go, Filbert.

Turn the machine off, you idio--

[ crying ]

I tried that, pinhead.

The button's stuck.

Then unplug it, baby doll.

It's wired directly into the main breakers.

What's your next brilliant idea, you weasel?

Go down the line and tell my family to slow up,

my little cupcake.

What, are your laces tied too tight?

It seems the machine dyes

173,000 pairs of shoes at a time

and it's fully loaded, you flip-flop.

[ both scream ]

The professional elves,

they'll know how to fix this.

They'll know... [ coughs ]

what to do.

Donald Tramp, he's a clown!

Throw him in a pond to drown!

My people are revolting.

Well, none of them are especially good-looking,

but revolting? I don't think you have to go that far.

- No, I meant that-- - Forget what you mean.

Here's my next plan.

I jump off of the building across the street,

spreading my bat-like wings.

I soar down to the front doors.

You guys will be standing here holding the doors like--

whoa!

[ both gasp ]

[ whimpering ]

Please, you've got to help me.

The shoes are running amok.

We want a labor meeting today.

Fine, just get me out of this mess.

- Yikes! - Ow, ow, ow, ow!

Yikes!

Now that the introductions are out of the way,

let's start with an opening statement from Arnie Reebok.

He's representing the striking workers. Mr. Reebok?

Thank you. Ahem.

The employees and the impartial mediator

here and after ipso facto as per aforementioned

decline to reiterate pursuant to the undersigned.

And that goes double for me.

Uh, yes. Very well said, Mr. Reebok.

Gordon: Let us proceed by hearing an opening statement

- by Donald Tramp's lawyer, Mr. Douglas Hushpuppy. - [ siren blaring ]

Just to add to what opposing counsel so eloquently stated,

yet due to the purpose of habeas corpus writ,

the pending receipt of the attached

decline and refuse with an acknowledged inquiry--

Enough already!

Can we lose these clowns?

Okay with me.

[ both scream ]

Now, what's it going to take

to get you back to work so you can fix my little predicament?

I-I think you'll need a s-surgeon for that.

Can we get on with this meeting?

The only reason we're here

is because you ran into trouble.

Everything is always on your terms.

My terms? I made you!

You were nothing before we came into the picture.

Nothing?

I was a master craftsman!

Who couldn't sell a pair of shoes to save your life.

- Gentlemen! - [ gunshot ]

Seeing as we are about to be overrun by polka-dot shoes,

and considering this episode ends in a couple of minutes,

can't we try and wrap this up and stop the strikers' demands?

Look, I don't care what it takes.

Just stop those shoes and I'll sign anything you want.

Is that okay with everyone?

- Fine by me. - I like it.

Good, then it's a done deal.

Now can you turn off those blasted machines?

Hurry up

while we still have part of a building left.

Go to it, my man.

That's it?

That's it. Now let's go sign some papers.

What papers?

You go tell those losers outside

to get their faces back in here and start cleaning up these shoes.

They'll be working double time until they're finished.

B-but what about our agreement?

Get a life, grinny. We had no agree--

Imelda: ♪ My feet come alive 'cause I'm so darn graceful ♪

♪ I feel I can dance for a million years. ♪

Honeybuns.

- That's your wife? - Yes.

Why, she's beautiful in those low-heeled pumps.

They add just the right amount of height.

Yes, I am.

What's come over you, my little sugar lips?

Knock off the sweet talk, polish breath.

I'm happy now.

These are the most comfortable, flattering shoes I've ever worn.

I'm buying them all.

Buying them all with what?

With the money I get

from my half of the business.

I'm leaving you, Donald.

You'll hear from my lawyer.

Leaving me?

But cinnamon crumb cake,

if you hated me so much,

why didn't you leave before?

How far would I have gotten in spike heels,

bunion breath?

[ gasps ]

I-isn't this b-beautiful?

Are you Donald Tramp?

Yes. May I help you, Officers?

And are those shoes outside from your factory?

Oh, well, yes, they are. I mean, they were.

Mr. Tramp, I'm arresting you for littering,

creating a public safety hazard,

and neglecting to floss this morning. Please come with me.

You can't do this to me!

I was framed! Yeah, that's it. It was the elves.

I'm a taxpaying citizen!

Help!

Well, we have you to thank for this, Mr. Shumway.

It's all up to you guys now.

Good luck with the shoe business.

Oh, and we'll need a convoy for these shoes.

Let's blow this pop shop, babe.

[ cheering ]

Gordon Shumway! Gordon Shumway!

He solves problems, not in a dumb way!

Don't give up the night job.

Hah! I kill me.

Told you I'd work in a beautiful babe.

[ tires squeal ]

- ♪ Gordon, send us... - ♪ Oh, send us...

♪ Into outer space

♪ 'Cause there ain't nobody like you ♪

♪ In the Melmacian race

♪ Teach us, Gordon

♪ Make us twitch.

Hah! I kill me!